Of Stars and Champagne
by SHEEP Next 1200Km
Summary: Remus is panicking, and Sirius calms him down. Fluff and slash.


Remus was panicking. Not mere worrying, but full, blown-out, abandon-ship-kind-of-panicking. This was the kind of panicking that could potentially lead to a personal spot in a St. Mungo's ward that few, if any, left.

It was easy to tell he was panicking: he wasn't flailing about, muttering aggressively, pacing, screaming, writhing his arms in the air manically or bellowing at random second years about upcoming doom ("The end is nigh: REPENT YE SINNERS," that sort of thing); no. That simply was not the Remus Lupin way.

No, _Remus_ was perched atop one of the middle Quidditch hoops. Not _in_ but on. As in _on top of_. Precariously. At 2 o'clock in the morning. In December. _Without_ his mittens. And Remus Lupin was a sixteen year old who was never without his mittens. Which was how Sirius knew Remus was panicking.

Sirius was feeling quite panicky himself – his lycan best friend _was_ balancing dangerously on a _hoop_. And so he decided to go and do something about it, for the fifteenth time that night. And, like all fourteen previous attempts, backed out of it again, concluding that Remus J. Lupin was a grown boy who could handle his own fears. But this made him feel terribly guilty.

It seemed that sixteen was going to be Remus Lupin's – potentially un- – lucky number. For it was on the sixteenth attempt that Sirius Black found his courage, and was finally spurred into action.

Approaching the post, his friend gave no indication as to whether he had been spotted. He took this as a positive sign, picked up the broomstick Remus had just let fall back to the floor and flew until he reached the hoop. Not being quite as daring as his friend, he settles for sitting inside the hoop. He would later claim that there would simply not have been enough room to fit two Marauders on the top, so he was saving Remus the discomfort.

Letting the broom be swept away with gravity, he tilted his head up to gaze at his friend who, in turn, was gazing at the stars.

There was a warm sort of silence in the cold air, save for the slight fidgeting of Sirius, as the hoop was digging into his tail bone. He contemplated conversation starters, ranging from "I always wanted to be an astronaut" to "Bit nippy, innit?" and finally "What the monkey's balls are you doing up here without your mittens your mittens, young man?" Before he spoke the latter aloud however, he realised this sounded a bit patronizing, and a bit hypocritical as Sirius had neither Remus' nor Sirius' mittens. And so he returned to contemplation.

"You know, if you quote Wilde," Remus says, without looking down, "I shall, quite probably throw myself down from this here hoop, and turn the green pitch red." Finally, Remus sets his gaze on Sirius: "You have been warned."

Sirius laughs, softly. "I was thinking more along the lines of Galileo, anyway," he replies, grinning cheekily. Remus groans – good naturedly – in response. They chuckle lightly together, before falling back on the pensive silence.

Finally Sirius' impatient curiosity blurts out, with the subtlety of a klaxon, "What are you panicking about, Moony?"

"Smooth, Padfoot. Smooth," he says, with a nonchalance a bit too intense.

"Don't procrastinate, Remus."

"Using _big_ words now-"

"_Rem_…" he says, pleadingly, wanting anything he's ever learnt that could be of use to come out of his mouth now, to make anything, _everything_ okay.

Remus swallows quickly, before stutteringly blinking, and returning his gaze to the furthest reaches of space he can.

Sitting on top of the goal, he is silent for a while, and Sirius plans how to get him talking again. Sirius opens his mouth, ready to deliver another painfully blunt statement, when Remus returns to the land of sound.

"A star watching a moon watching the stars: how ironic-"

"Remus-" But he trawls on.

"Of course, if you looked at the real moon, then – _then_ it would be a star gazing at the moon, while a moon gazes at the stars-"

"Moony!" But Remus just carries on, his voice rising in pitch, volume and hysteria.

"You know, the muggles have reached the moon? The _moon_! Without magic! But they'll never – _never_ – reach the stars. Because they're untouchable-"

"Remus, please!" Sirius is begging now; not because he is afraid, but because he wants it to stop. He wants to be inside. He wants his mate inside. He wants his mate to be laughing, smiling – reading a damn _book_ if it stops him sounding so…broken. But most of all the pain: he wants whatever is hurting Moony to stop. _He_ wants to stop the pain. He wants the whole world to explode around them so his friend no longer hurts. He'd carry it out if necessary – without hesitation.

Remus lowers his gaze. Not so much that it reaches the pitch, or Sirius, but so that his sight comes to rest on his mitten-less hands. Fiddling with his fingers, he continues, hysteria morphing into sincerity.

"There's a war coming," he starts, softly. Sirius makes as if to quiet him, but he shakes his head. "There's a war coming and I-" He breaks off, and looks to the empty stands. "And I…_I'll_ never reach the stars." The emotion behind the statement just about stops Sirius breathing.

"I'll never do a lot of things because of the _stupid_ war, and my _stupid_ lycanthropy, and because there are always _stupid_ bloody limits." He looks up again, but in a way that suggests he isn't seeing. He spreads his arms wide with emotion.

"I'll never hear red; I'll never smell G Sharp; I'll never – I'll never taste the stars." Sirius doesn't like a lot of things, but he hates very few. Sirius hates the tiredness in Remus' voice, hates the resignation.

"Come on, Moons," he whispers. He offers his hand, and Summons the broom.

"Alright," Remus acquiesces jadedly, taking the proffered hand.

Silently, they fly down to the broom sheds, returning the broom to its holding place. Sirius wraps his cloak around the both of them, and directs them forward. Sirius notes how he is the one keeping Remus up. If Remus notices that they are not heading in the direction of the dorm he doesn't say anything.

Eventually, they reach the kitchens. Leaning in, Sirius whispers into one of the startled House Elves' fuzzy ears. He turns around to face Remus, expression brutally open and earnest. Remus sighs.

"Sirius, wha-" But he is interrupted by a rush of activity all around him.

Suddenly, he is in a seat opposite Sirius, with a long, stemmed glass in his hands. There is not a single, downy-eared House Elf in the room. It is slightly unnerving.

He tries again, "Sirius, wha-" But he is cut off again.

"Ever tried champagne, Remus?" Sirius asks quietly. Remus looks into the yellow liquid, watching the streams of bubbles rise up. He shakes his head.

"Never had reason to." He watches Sirius swirl his own glass, the bubbles determinedly flying straight up, no matter the angle.

"It's quite a strange…experience for those who've never had it before."

"What's it like?" Sirius is silent for a moment, just stares into Remus's eyes.

"When Dom Pierre Pérignon tried his champagne the first time, he supposedly cried out to the other monks, "Come, quickly, I am tasting stars!"" He smiles softly at Remus, and Remus smiles back, feeling betrayed by the wobble in his lips.

"How did you…" he gestures around pathetically. But Sirius is more than understanding. He laughs softly before answering.

"It was just by luck that you said you'd never taste the stars. That was something I could provide. The other two…" he scratches the back of his neck awkwardly, "Well, I'm working on them."

With his free hand, Remus grasps Sirius' hand and squeezes. Through that squeeze his conveys all intense feelings of gratitude he has, but in case Sirius didn't get the message says, emphatically, "Thank you."

But Sirius shakes his head. "You don't get it, Moony. I'm not doing this as a favour, or because I'm kind or anything. I'm doing this because you're my friend, and I'm incredibly selfish. I do this to make me happy." Sirius squeezes back. "You and I value unique experiences differently. I judge it by the number of pranks I can pull on firsties, or how many firsties pull pranks on _me_. I judge it by the number of times I can get Binns to laugh, or Flitwick to sigh. I judge it by the amount of times the Marauders freak people out by smiling conspiratorially." He leans forward in sincerity. "I can't give you, I dunno, anger to touch, or oxygen to see – but I can give you a hell of a lot more to experience that's just as great. I mean, besides you and me, who else can boast having ridden the Giant Squid?"

Remus chuckles, and it feels soggy in his throat.

"I can give you other experiences, Moony, despite this stupid war, and your stupid lycanthropy. Because you, Remus, You are _never_ held down by stupid bloody limits. You exceed them."

Remus leans forward, and the flute is dropped from his fingers. The glass shatters on contact with the floor, but he doesn't care: his lips are attached to Sirius', and he is tasting a star.


End file.
